UNSPOKEN
by Chimaya
Summary: WHI/WHN "Whitey"   Maybe the teeniest bit A/R - unless you believe... Disclaimer: I have no ownership rights to these characters, and no profit is sought in the borrowing of them.
1. Chapter 1

I.

He had her – by all that was God, he had her.

Jim wasn't sure what he'd find inside the shack, just knew that the outlaw Beau Tinker would be out for a kill, and that Dulcey had to be nearby. That's why he'd held Francis back after he'd dispatched Tinker, because whatever lay inside was going to be seen by his eyes first. Because he'd seen too many things in his time, and if it was Dulcey, and if she was…

But now his arms were full of her – Dulcey, dirty and stressed, but wholly alive. With absolute relief shimmering in her eyes as she'd run to him. Yes, he had her now…

_Always wondered what it'd take to melt you, Crown…_

Dulcey…

She was pressed tight up against him, as if she couldn't get close enough and somehow crawling in under his vest would be the only thing that would comfort her. And so taut she felt like she'd break apart in his embrace. It scared Jim, paralyzed him. All he could muster was an awkward pat on her back, his fingers splayed yet frozen, each tap reminding him how close – how damnably close – he'd come to losing her. How he didn't deserve anything less than her complete vitriol because he'd used her and she'd paid the price. He should be on his knees to her, asking her for forgiveness. Days – how many had it been? Too damned many. And now all this, because of his single-minded idea to press the boy nicknamed Whitey into revealing the Tinker Gang's whereabouts, when he hadn't paid enough attention to the youngster himself. The mistake was all his – but what it'd cost Dulcey…

"Dulcey…"

He tried to say more but couldn't because she was starting to sob, shuddering with great dry gulps that wracked her. His heart tore at the sound; he'd never seen her so shattered. Still she clung to him, somehow soothing his churning guilt with her refusal to let go. Jim broadened his hold, engulfing her, trying to comfort her and not really knowing how. All he knew was that he had her. He had her, she was alive…

From what he could see the boy Whitey was dead, shot almost through the heart; she'd been holding the sprawled, still body in her lap, and the look on her face said the kid had breathed his last. Tinker's doing, most likely. Either the boy had refused to let Dulcey go, or Tinker had ideas other than those in the letter his outlaw brother Arn had written directing her release. One or the other had also killed Rosario, who was lying not far beyond in the room. Dulcey knew the truth, but he couldn't ask her – wouldn't – not yet.

Jim let his gaze rove further – the shack was a hovel, fallen in and filthy…isolated –

He tried to count up the nights – two, or three? Time had been rendered infinite for him, a collection of riding and searching in daylight and darkness, systematically scouring quadrants of the Outlet, sifting through stones and shadows, examining countless tracks and seeing Dulcey in each one. Telling himself that she would be all right, that Whitey hadn't hurt her or harmed her, that the boy, half-crazy with vengeance, hadn't left her for dead – or wishing she was-

Enough, he told himself. He had Dulcey and that was enough, for now.

"Come on," Jim said to her. "Time to go home…"

She was stiff-backed, but he got her shifted over to his other side to keep his arm free to reach his Colt, and then guided her forward. She quickly stumbled; her skirts promptly wrapped around his leg, caught on one knee, nearly tripped him. Jim carefully untangled them, a fist crammed into what seemed like a mile of deep fabric. Still she clung to him, hiding her face behind a fall of unkempt hair, wetting his shirt with tears he didn't even realize she'd shed.

She cringed as they stepped back out into the bright, hot sunlight, and let off a sound – it sounded like his name. Jim stopped to reposition his hold on her, surprised at how easily his arm reached all the way around her waist, how his hand spanned most of her trembling ribcage…how incredibly fragile she was tucked up against him. Then a wave of harsh thoughts splashed him as he saw her dirty arms, her stained dress…

Francis turned as they approached, one eye and ear cocked for trouble. Jim's gaze also swept the area, his own ears listening for what he might not see, actions honed with long practice. But all was in good order – his young deputy had done a lot of work in a short stack of time. Beau Tinker's body had already been bound to the saddle of a horse, his gunbelt removed and his face covered. Two other horses had been retrieved – Jim recognized one as the stocky palomino stolen from the Cimarron livery. Francis now stood covering their trail with his Winchester, waiting for his next orders.

"All quiet so far," he reported, his expression of relief turning grim at the sight of Dulcey swaying in Jim's embrace. "We'd best not tarry, though. Dulcey – she's…?"

She was upright, mostly, though she'd surely drop if he even loosened two fingers from her. Dirty and tired, but beyond that…? He hadn't see any blood on her, but hadn't looked for any either. Again the black thoughts swept him. Jim fixed a glare back onto the shack, demanding it to tell him what had happened here, what the boy Whitey had done…

"Hold that mare," he directed instead. "Dulcey…?"

He gathered up both her hands into one of his, hating the way his calloused palm scraped against her smooth skin. She'd been so quiet – too quiet. Overwhelmed, surely, in some kind of shock. He tenderly drew back her curtain of hair, tucked it behind her shoulder, careful to keep his touch light. He'd known women who'd been silenced by horrific violence, witnessed mere girls go lost in the mind from unspeakable crimes bestowed on them. Had even once helped pull one from the river where she'd jumped, weighted by rocks she'd tied about her waist…

_No_, he told himself. _Not Dulcey, not her…_

"Dulcey," he murmured, placing fingers on her chin to make her look at him, encouraged when she didn't flinch at his touch. But his heart clenched at the white face that stared back at him, at the hollow eyes spilling tears that made dirty tracks down her cheeks. She looked so – empty.

"Think you can ride?" Jim gently asked her. "We're heading back – straight to Cimarron."

Dulcey frowned at him for a long moment, the look in her blue eyes dark and uncomprehending. Then her gaze darted back to the shack. "Whitey…" she began. "We can't – he's…" She took a step that way but Jim caught her back. She stumbled again.

"We'll be bringing him along," Jim said reassuringly, ducking a little to redirect her attention back onto him. She blinked, seemed to focus a little. He could tell she was working on something by the way she caught her lower lip between her teeth, how her hand strayed through some long strands of hair. Yet he knew he couldn't rush her, even though he wanted to be far gone from this place. "Now, do you think you can ride?" His black gelding could easily carry them both, and would if she collapsed like he thought she might do, but manhandling her too much too soon could be worse…

He waited, holding her, watching her. She continued to frown, her gaze alternating between him and the shack. He was just about to prompt her again when she took an unsteady breath. Tangled emotion roiled across her pale features. She began to shake hard.

"No," she whimpered, sinking in his grasp. "No, no…"

"Dulcey…" Jim heard the emerging panic in his own voice and swallowed it back, hard and sour. Fear pummeled him – she was going to a place of blackness in her mind…

No – not Dulcey. She was strong. She hadn't run back to Providence, even after all the times when he placed danger outside her door by swinging the jail door shut on some hardened outlaw or wild drunk. Hadn't run after every time she'd seen death, once even in her own dining room. Hadn't run from the dust and dirt and harshness and bitterness of downtrodden settlers, out of work cowboys, bored soldiers. Hadn't run from the ruin of her father's business affairs, or the loss of each busted chair, broken window, smashed crockery. She picked it and herself up, kept going. Because she trusted him…

Trust – and he'd nearly failed her…

"Dulcey," he called, resisting the urge to shake her. Beyond him Francis was approaching, his young face pale with emerging panic.

"Jim! What…?"

Jim cupped her damp cheek, stroked it, found a glimmer in her gaze and locked onto it. "Dulcey – Biscuit…" The pet name slipped out before he could pull it back – she hated it when he called her that, but it always made him chuckle at her pretty irritation-

"My shoes," Dulcey suddenly blurted back at him; her look went back to the shack again. "I need my shoes…"

_Too late!_ clamored the alarm inside him, but he shoved it back before it could work any farther into his brain. Instead he eased her down onto a jumble of rocks and knelt beside her, fumbled under the hem of her skirt…

Slowly he eased a small, stocking-covered foot into his palm and raised it to rest on his knee. The material was ripped and torn, the heel underneath scraped and red.

"Whitey – he took them…" Dulcey was saying breathlessly. "So I couldn't escape…"

Fury blew through him. _You bug-eating little bastard – if you weren't already dead…_

"I'll need them…" she faltered. "To ride…"

"Let me," Francis offered and hurried around the side of the palomino.

"Try the saddlebags," Jim pointed, then drew up her other foot; it was in similar condition. He tried not to let his hands shake as he ran his hands over her ankles, looking for swelling even as he knew the touch was just short of disrespect. "How's this? Does it hurt any?" He crammed his lips together to keep from rambling even as worry began to re-knot inside him – just what else had that puffed up, squawking little sonofabitch done to her…?

"It's – it's all right," Dulcey murmured to him as he finished his examination and sighed in relief – nothing overly swollen or broken-looking.

Francis re-appeared, one shoe in each hand. They got them on her, their larger fingers fumbling clumsily over the laces until she brushed their hands aside and leaned down to silently finish the job herself. Without waiting for anything else, Jim boosted her across the saddle of the palomino mare and guided her hands to the horn.

"I'll take her and Beau Tinker," he told Francis quietly, drawing up the mare's reins. "Get Whitey and the other one and catch up."

"Marshal," Francis nodded to Dulcey, his blue eyes edged with real fear. "Is she all right?"

"I don't know," Jim tersely replied.

He truly didn't.


	2. Chapter 2

II.

Three hours gone and two to go, maybe more at this pace. But Jim refused to hurry, because Dulcey wasn't riding all that well. Even as he pulled to a stop he couldn't recall ever seeing her ride astride a horse, or even sidesaddle. And she could be hurt and not showing it.

Two hours to go. It would be long dark by then.

"We'll rest here," he announced, dismounting in the long blue shadows of the trail. Just beyond, a slow moving stream, an offshoot of the bigger Cimarron River, worked through some pale grass. The air had cooled; judging by the direction of the wind, they'd be in for a cold night, as well. One more reason not to dally. "Ten minutes – Francis, give the horses a drink. Dulcey…?"

Her arms were already looping around his neck; he easily lifted her down, kept a hand on her. "We're taking a little rest," he explained to her. "Give you a chance to stretch your legs – and take care of some 'business,' hm?" He held her until he was sure she was steady, then steered her toward a rocky outcropping. Surely she had to go. He just wished he had something more than this rough privacy to offer her. "Go on – take your time."

Dulcey swallowed, and then looked up at him with those blue eyes of hers – the overwhelmed, exhausted look in them pierced him. "Jim…" she got out, rocking to a stop. "I – I…there's…"

"Go on, Dulcey," he lightly insisted. "Business first."

She glanced nervously to the spot he indicated. "Is it – you won't…?"

He took her hand, grateful that she was talking, even just this little. "It's safe – I'll be right here waiting. All right?"

She hesitated, then murmured an assent. He gave her a smile of assurance, released her hand from his grasp, and watched her move away. His observation had been keen on her as they'd traveled farther through the sand and scrub, with just his boot separating the mare and his black. She hadn't said anything in that time, but her trust in him seemed secure; he felt it in the way she accepted the pace, in his decision to lead the mare rather than let her keep the reins, in his direction to Francis to keep a length behind and an eye for any approaching riders. He'd even thought he'd seen a glimpse of that furrow she often got in her brow when she was cogitating on something decidedly female. She was strong, he reminded himself. She had grit. Any woman would be skittish after being threatened and kidnapped – some men, too. And then to have the boy die right in her lap…

Whitey – Jim's thoughts quickly darkened. That boy…man enough to harm a woman in a man's way…

He waited until she slipped from view, then brought the black and the palomino to the water's edge, dropped the reins and loosened the girths. Practiced and easy actions to perform, yet they could not stave off his emerging frustration. Dulcey needed comforts – a bath, some food, her bed…maybe even a doctor's examination, and this pace wasn't going to get them to it anytime soon. At least the trail was smooth from here on out; a few more miles and they'd reach the connection to the main stage road. Jim's gaze traveled back to the spot where he'd led her. How long would it take with all those skirts…?

_Always wondered what it'd take to melt you, Crown…_ Arn Tinker's words rattled inside his head again. The outlaw had called it correctly. Dulcey…

She was a regular and welcome moment of constancy in the unpredictable nature of his job. Over the months Jim had come to enjoy hearing her lilting voice, her bright greetings, even her irritation when he – or Francis or MacGregor – upset her. She was easy enough on the eyes; he liked her soft blue eyes, her long blonde hair, the way her brow puckered just a little as she peppered him with questions about one exasperating thing or another that'd rattled around in her mind over night. Before now he'd always had his own office and jail, which allowed himself the privacy he preferred. But these shared living – and working – arrangements had unexpected benefits. Having his bed changed regular and his clothes washed and delivered to his room, having his breakfast ready right after his morning ablutions was right easy to get used to. And he could close his office door, use his outside entrance, remove himself from unwanted company whenever he wanted. Not that a closed door ever fully deterred Dulcey. But he didn't mind, not really.

He could've easily had the Cimarron jail rebuilt at its original location – yet he hadn't. The major reason was because it allowed him to keep an eye on a pretty young innocent from Providence that owned the other half of the building where he conducted business, a young woman who had decided to stay in Cimarron, and refused his constant and harsh warnings of death and danger. A young woman who had enough grit in her heart and enough stubbornness in her mind to face the violence and the lawlessness of the entire Strip and still pursue her dreams. Who decorated the Wayfarer's Inn with tablecloths and flower vases – and had complete and unswerving faith in him.

Oh, he knew full well she was infatuated with him, had seen it the first time he'd locked gazes with her on the train to Cimarron. He couldn't say he wasn't flattered. But he'd been careful not to encourage her, resorting to a little teasing and a few well-spoken, gruff words to put her off. And in his line of work, it was better not to cultivate too much of a friendship with anyone, for their sakes and his own. Besides, she was too young. And inexperienced. His tastes tended to someone a little more brassy and worldly, someone like himself, a little torn around the edges…

Then she'd been kidnapped. And as the hours slid into days, the worry in him had worn a hole within him. He could deny it all he wanted, scratch it as much as it itched, but it wasn't going to go away. Dulcey meant more to him than clean clothes and breakfast. Her friendship was pure, and her trust in him was complete. And his friendly affection for her had unexpectedly turned from fondness into something that struck closer to the heart…

He'd spent four days last month leading a posse in search of the missing Winters girl from the settlement, stopping only to change exhausted mounts for fresh, sleeping bare hours each night as they'd pursued a renegade raiding party into the Outlet. He'd performed as he always had, with complete dedication to justice, willing to die for the cause. But none of that rang even close to the terror that'd closed around his heart in his search for Dulcey. It was a frantic kind of horror, thrumming and desperate, straining every fiber of his being, squeezing his lungs and eating at his mind, pouring into what little sleep he tried. Made him crazy-wild with dreams of not finding her alive – or whole…

Yes, she melted him, right through the middle of his bones and down into his very core.

He hadn't denied Arnold Tinker's observation because he could not deny the truth. His threat to Whitey had also been clear and fully understood by the boy– he'd kill in cold blood if Dulcey was harmed.

"You thinking of making it back to Cimarron tonight?" Francis asked, jolting him out of his contemplations.

"Yes." Jim reached for his canteen, checked the heat of his big gelding. "I don't want Dulcey out here any longer than necessary."

"I can ride ahead," Francis offered. "Fetch a wagon if that will help?" Then he let off a little sound of worry. "She sure is quiet."

"She's had a few rough days out here," Jim softly replied.

"I shouldn't have left her with him," Francis continued with self-loathing. "Especially with you gone…"

"He was bent on revenge," Jim told him, his own self-reproach booting at his backside again. "That gives a man all sorts of ideas." He glanced back. How long did it take…?

"If he hurt her…" Francis growled, savagely kicking a stone into the stream and startling the horses. "Jim, if he harmed her I swear -"

Jim closed a hard hand around the other man's shoulder and cut him off. "Leave it be," he counseled, trying not to sound harsh. "Can't kill a man who's already dead." _Though I'd be the first in line if you could,_ he thought silently.

"Sorry," Francis nodded. "I know how hard it's been for you – Jim…" he pointed.

Dulcey was making her way back around the rock, pale and unsteady. Jim knew she'd been sick by the waxy pallor of her face. In the blaze of the late afternoon light he could see the rest of her condition, dirty and bedraggled, with a new thinness that had taken some of the weight off her. Swaying under exhaustion, needing…

"Snug up those cinches," he told Francis, and stepped away.

She had dropped hard onto a rock, sat there breathing hard. Jim went to one knee beside her; saw the beads of sweat dotting her forehead, her upper lip. "Take this, rinse out," he gently advised, holding out his canteen to her. "You'll feel better."

Their fingers brushed, his warm, hers uncommonly cold. She took a short swallow and delicately spit it out, accepted the bandanna he offered and wiped at first one cheek, then the other. "Thank you," she finally said, handing it back over. She sat back, looked around. "How – how far…?"

"Nightfall or later," he told her, wishing it was sooner.

She slumped a little. "Oh…"

"Dulcey…" He couldn't put it off any longer. She couldn't get back on a horse if there were broken ribs, or bleeding, things that could harm her even more without treatment. And if she was carrying injuries, he'd manage to treat them – somehow… "Did he hurt you?" he asked her.

Dulcey frowned up at him. "Who?"

"Whitey…" he nodded. "Did he hurt you?"

"No." Dulcey slowly shook her head. Her gaze flitted to the horses burdened with the bodies. "He asked me to marry him."

Panic re-bubbled in him. "Why did he do that?" he asked her in a careful tone. Talking, keep her talking, he told himself. It will make sense if she has to think…

"I don't think he really understood – it was just his way of getting back – he was so angry. First with you, and then that man Tinker…" Dulcey did smile then, in a deep, sad way. "He said I was the first person that didn't make him feel small." She took a breath and glanced away. Her voice lowered. "He didn't mean to – that night…"

"Dulcey…" Jim quickly twisted to sit around in front of her. Their knees bumped. He seized her hands and squeezed them, hard enough for her to give a little gasp of pain. "Look at me now. Back at that cabin-"

"He saved my life," Dulcey told him. He saw tears catch on her lashes, and clenched her hands tighter. "That man – he wanted to kill me…Whitey died – he was so brave…"

"Did he hurt you?" Jim pressed. "Did Whitey put his hands on you? Tell me what happened now…"

"He was confused," Dulcey stammered in reply. "And – and jealous – of you."

He pulled back a little. "Me?"

Vengeful because he'd been duped, but certainly no more jealous of any other man – the kid was generously hateful of himself due to his short stature. Wore it like a festering wound for everyone to see. That got him picked on – and made him dangerous in return. What could he be possibly jealous of…?

Dulcey nodded shyly. "He thought that you – and me…and that I wanted to…He told me how he found you sleeping…He said you…I told him we were just – we were friends," she stumbled on. "But he didn't understand..."

_You…and me…just friends…_the words cobbled themselves together, enveloped them in a swirl of late afternoon breeze and slanting sun. Dulcey's gaze rose to his, searching, questioning, seeking certainty within her doubt.

Jim met it full on, though he wasn't sure she was exactly grasping everything at the moment. There was a time and a place to deal with this, but it shouldn't be out here in the sand and the wind, amongst their twinned exhaustion and fraught nerves. And there were layers to this truth that he wasn't even sure he fully understood, consequences to consider of just how much to reveal – if it could even be revealed. He wondered whether she'd even ask once her head was clearer. He'd give her an answer if she did ask, one that he hoped she'd truly comprehend, one that he hoped made sense...

But he couldn't confuse her right now. And he needed to know if she was truly injured. "What happened with Whitey, Dulcey?" Jim prompted her gently.

"He wanted to marry me, take me away – from you, because he thought you-" She cut off and shook her head. "I think he loved me," she continued softly. "In his own way, because I don't think he really knew what love was, not really. Not at all. He made it sound so simple, too simple. I think he confused it with friendship, which isn't the same, is it?" she asked him, but he wasn't sure she even wanted a reply. She was sounding more like herself, but there was something he didn't like about the way she was going on. She was fairly trembling in his grasp, but it wasn't fear – something more like frenzied excitement. And her eyes were now over-bright…

"Slow down now," Jim soothed over a fresh assault of worry. "Are you hurt anywhere?" He let go of one of her hands, put his fingers to her forehead – clammy, but no fever…

She rattled on. "There's a sort of love in friendship, I know. You can't help but care for your friends, even have strong feelings for them..."

"Dulcey…"

But she plowed on. "Whitey thought it was all one and the same. He didn't have any friends, or anyone to ever care for. He just knew anger, and hate. He didn't understand. I think he thought that a kindness meant more than it really was-"

She yanked herself free, jumped up and turned from him. "I'm sorry, Jim!" she suddenly sobbed, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry I made you worry. I didn't mean to! He told me how you…I thought he was just – lonely. I didn't know he'd be so mean. And he wasn't, not really, he was upset and jealous and he wanted to get back at you for tricking him and…"

Jim rose, reached for her; she was visibly quaking. "Dulcey…"

"Oh, Jim!" At his touch she launched herself against him, arms sliding around his waist and locking tight, the top of her head bumping his unshaven chin. "I'm so sorry! It's all my fault! I know you've told me over and over not to go into the cells without someone and I didn't listen… You must be so – so furious…"

No, not furious-

_Melted._

"I knew you'd come," she whispered fiercely to him. "No matter what. I knew you wouldn't let him just take me away. And I wasn't going to marry him, not if I didn't have to. I tried putting him off, giving you time. I didn't love him, Jim. I didn't…"

"Dulcey," he murmured, stroking her cheek, her hair, even as his insides knotted up tight. Worried that he'd be mad at her, upset because of something he could fairly guess that Whitey told her, while he was just as crazy with his own fears – and feelings. "It's all right now – it's all right…"

"He didn't hurt me, Jim," she told him. "Not like – not like what you think. Really, he just didn't know how to care… He tried, but it was too late…"

Again the essence of time seemed to shut down around him, closing him off from everything but the weight of her pressed against him as she finished her release, apologizing over and over and assuring him that she was all right. And he stood there, unable to respond, his arms and his heart full of her and so god-awful grateful that she was safe. Dulcey, sweet Dulcey. Never would he use her again – never would he let anyone…

The wind shifted, blew cool. Francis had brought the horses up, was waiting quietly for them in freshly formed shadows. It was late – later than he wanted it to be.

"I'm all right now," Dulcey finally told him, pulling away. She looked up at him with a face that was tired but composed. But the dark smudges under her eyes had darkened, and her lips had lost some color. "Please – I want to go home."

He worked up a grin for her and squeezed her hand. "Best news I've had all day, Biscuit," he said, and chuckled when she gave him just a hint of exasperation at the use of the nickname.

She pulled aside her skirts, lifted her foot into the stirrup, and grabbed the saddle horn, pulled herself up under his assisting hands. Then she stopped, balancing there, breathing fast again. She half-turned to him – her face had gone quickly gray. "Jim…I – I don't feel…"

He felt the quick heat coming off her, stepped in close, knew instantly that her exhaustion had reached its zenith –

She dropped. He caught her just as the mare shied back.


	3. Chapter 3

III.

It was dark– and colder. Dulcey shivered, tried to straighten her protesting back, loosen her aching legs and knees. They were still riding, she in the saddle, Jim just behind. How did he do it? she wondered hazily. How could he hold her while riding on the bare back of the beast, work the reins with one hand and pull another horse behind, follow a trail in the dark…?

"Jim…" Her tongue felt thick – how long had it been since she'd spoken?

"Right here," he said in her ear, his voice low, always distinctive. She'd awoken once earlier, thought she'd heard him humming a tune that was just a little off-key. "You all right?" He shifted her a little, back toward the center of the saddle, adjusted his arm around her.

"Where are we?" she asked, wishing she had the strength keep her head up instead of letting it roll inward toward him.

"Almost home." She felt the curve of his cheek lift against her forehead in what had to be a smile. Behind her skirted calves his legs gave the horse a squeeze, even as he drew up the reins; the animal obligingly slowed to a walk. "Cimarron – there's the lights."

He'd refused to let her ride alone. Not that she could –after coming out of her faint her limbs would not connect to her body, and her head was aching too hard to even stand. So she'd sat, half-conscious and helpless, as he'd buttoned his jacket around her and lifted her – so easily – up into his arms and across his saddle. Then he'd stepped into the stirrup and swung up behind her, his knees sliding just under hers and trapping her skirts as he settled into place. She hadn't resisted when his arm eased around her waist and drew her back against him, though she'd rarely been so close to a man. But it was Jim and he would never harm her, and she could barely hold herself up. Her head, so heavy and hurting, had dropped onto his broad shoulder. The rest of her found the warmth coming off his solid chest; it worked into her and she'd slid into sleep under the black's rocking gait …

Home. Thank goodness. Dulcey squinted, saw the Wayfarer's main sign, but then they were rounding the corner toward Jim's office door. It opened, spilling warm and inviting light over the step. A figure stood there – MacGregor, no Francis; Jim had ordered him to ride in ahead. Told him to do something…she couldn't remember.

"Here we are." Jim's hands were reaching for her again, lifting her down. Then they were heading inside, through the office, out into the dining area, up the wide, familiar stairway. His arm remained securely about her, his calm voice and steady touch guiding her so that she didn't have to think beyond putting one foot in front of the other. He must be cold, she realized as they reached the upper hallway. They'd been riding for what seemed like hours in the dark and he'd only been in shirtsleeves…

He stopped her in front of the bath door. There he removed his jacket from her shoulders and thrust her into the room and told her to take her time. She heard him murmur something about waiting for her, and then he quietly backed out.

Feeling keenly alone – and freshly isolated – Dulcey shivered again. She stood there for a long moment, rubbing her arms in the deepening quiet and trying to leach the craziness of past few days out of her. She was home, back at the Inn, she reminded herself. Home. Tomorrow she'd get up and cook breakfast for Jim and Francis, open for business and serve her customers. Round up washing, start the next day's baking. All part of her normal routine.

Yet, it wasn't so quickly normal, couldn't be. Things had happened to her, terrible, unsettling things. A boy had died in her lap, and an outlaw had almost shot her. There were dead bodies tied to horses down in the street below. There'd been days – and nights – of meanness, and harshness, and fear. Thoughts and talk of marriage, and friendship and love, things she rarely discussed with anyone. And there'd been hope, too. She closed her eyes and took a breath, then another, trying to settle the fresh jangling working up in her. It was over – and yet it wasn't…

She took a few steps to re-order her mind, felt the humid warmth of the room for the first time. The tub, she saw, was full and steaming, some clean clothes of hers were folded neatly on the corner stool. She fingered them, then lifted the clean towel from the rack above. Jim's doing. Somehow he'd managed all this – for her. He knew what to do for her. She looked about the room again, feeling strangely overwhelmed by his kindness. Never had anyone – let alone a man – treated her so thoughtfully…

Giving over to more urgent needs of comfort, she stripped and settled into the warm and soothing water, let it envelop and warm her. In time she washed, then scrubbed, and scrubbed harder. Tears came, hot and aching with leftover fear and sadness. She scrubbed them, too, while Jim's recent advice filled her ears – _death out here is too common to mourn much – even if it is tragic beyond words…_ And the sadness surrounding Whitey's death, tragic as it was, was indeed leaving her. Even the fear she'd been carrying was now fading into the weakness of relief. It was over. Jim had found her, rescued her. He did his job so well, knew exactly what to do, where to look. He'd found her, held her when she'd needed holding, taken such care of her…

_He's in love with you…_

Whitey didn't even understand love – how could he make that declaration? It wasn't as simple as picking out a person and deciding to marry them. Whitey had demanded marriage because he'd been jealous of Jim, wanted to get back at him for the way Jim had tricked him. Whitey thought that marriage would fix things, would keep Jim from coming for her. Thought it would be so easy. But it wasn't that simple. Jim was her friend – Francis and MacGregor, too. Friends helped each other, shared their joys and sorrows with each other, and offered their gifts of time and attention. Sometimes they even died for one another. There was love in friendship, a depth of caring that Whitey just hadn't understood. And just because a man and a woman cared for each other, it didn't mean they intended to marry. That's where Whitey was wrong. And Whitey was wrong to make such accusations against her – and Jim. Whitey didn't know…

She caught her image in the mirror and gave herself a critical frown. There wasn't much staring back at her that would attract a man with notions of romance. She was plain in all sense of the word. Her cheeks were too broad, her eyes too large. Good working stock, her employers had often told others, a strong and sturdy kind. Her waist was too straight, her legs too long, and her bosom – not enough there for a second look. And the color of her hair was way too bright. The tresses barely held a wave, instead grew straight and heavy…unflattering. Oh, there'd often been some stares after her, even some compliments, some nice, some rough, most sincere. But nothing more.

But she hadn't come all this way to Indian Territory with intentions of marrying. She'd wanted to be with her father, find a new home, a future. And though she'd been too late to meet her father, she did have the Inn. And what she'd told Whitey about being single was true. She liked working and owning the Wayfarer's, even if it meant for some long days cooking, serving, washing and the like. And despite the roughness of Cimarron City, the danger and violence and even death, here she had a real home – and purpose. Here she contributed. She was no longer an upstairs maid but a business owner, a member of the Ladies' Society, a patron of the library. Here she could help those in need, and be helped in return. Already she knew so many people, more than back in Providence, good and kind people. There was Mrs. Lorden and Mrs. Andrews, and the doctor's wife Mrs. Kihlgren. Febrizio the bartender. A couple of girls from the settlement. Francis was like a big brother to her, MacGregor an uncle. And Jim…

Jim Crown. Dulcey blushed a little, looked away from herself. That he was a handsome man there was no doubt, what with his firm cheeks and dimpled chin, the thick black hair that somehow always edged over his collar and forehead. Those glittering eyes, those curled lashes. That gravelly voice. His broad chest, narrow hips, long legs, and confident stride – surely she hadn't been the only one to notice. And beyond that, a man of such experience. He'd been so far, done so much – cavalry scout, cowboy, lawman. He knew about farming and ranching and trapping and a good many other things. He was bold and confident, smart and capable; he could ride and shoot and recite the law, and wasn't afraid to use his gun or his fists to settle a matter. He knew how to deal with people, everyone from outlaws to farmers, cattlemen to cavalry men, even senators and judges. He had quieted this town within a week of arriving, set up rules and expected everyone to abide, and broke the heads of those who didn't. He was firm-headed but fair, and-

And he was almost old enough to be her father, she reproved herself, reaching up to towel her hair. He was thirty-five to her eighteen – well, almost nineteen now. From the start he'd made it clear that he was a practical man in a hard world, did not take time for softness, brushed off her admonitions and scoffed at her worries with a confidence that confounded her. Yet Dulcey counted him as a friend just the same, even if his manner toward her could be often brusque and his words just as harsh. She could confide in him and know that he would not laugh at her, even if he did get aggravated by her decidedly female questions or enthusiasm. She thought that her smile, her cheeriness, sometimes lifted the weariness he so often wore after long days on the job. She had come to understand that his gruffness was his way keeping her – or anyone else – from getting too close to him. For he knew that each time he rode out after some lawbreaker he might not come back, for each gunslinger that he faced he might not be the faster draw – and she knew it, too.

But it hadn't exactly worked. She did care for him – deeply.

_He's in love with you…_

"He's my dearest friend," she whispered softly aloud as she carefully folded the towel and replaced it on the rack. That's what she'd told Whitey. But it was only a friendship, would always be just that, no matter what she felt for him. Jim was firmly married to his job. He was the embodiment of the badge he wore, and believed in the duty and responsibility that went with it. It was his life; there was no other for him. Oh, he liked her, of that she was sure, maybe a little bit more than most folks in town. She knew he appreciated the meals she cooked for him, and the saddlebags she packed for him. He liked having the clean and pressed clothes she provided for him, more than most men. He cared for her in his own way, but it couldn't be called love, not in his mind. And then there were the times she thought he actually looked beyond her, or even through her, because his mind was so often on a lot of other things. And she was too young, too inexperienced…too plain for him to notice otherwise. Except today...

Today she'd seen something different about him. There was the worn exterior, and the way his voice had sounded panicked at times. How he'd stayed so close to her, holding her, helping her. And then, when they'd stopped off the trail, there'd been that open worry -

And a look that had appeared in his hazel eyes, a shadow beyond his glittering gaze…a moment revealed, right when she'd almost blurted what Whitey had told her. Something so raw and honest that she'd instantly refused it.

"No," she said to the room now, drawing on her nightclothes. No, it could not be. How could it be? That Jim could—

Dulcey looked about, at her clothing, the tub, the towels – he'd done all this for her…

It filled her so that her heart raced and her head pounded anew – and made her afraid. Afraid of what she thought was already true, afraid of what he might tell her – if she had any courage to ask. And sometimes it was better to keep hope in your heart than swallow the cold, hard truth…

She shivered a little – the room was cooling. And Jim was waiting for her. With trepidation Dulcey opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

He was there, had dragged his bedroom chair out into the hallway instead of standing all the while. Upon seeing her, he rose in that fluid, graceful way of his, offered her a slight nod. He'd washed up, she noticed, though his jaw was still unshaven; he'd removed his vest and changed his shirt, but his gunbelt remained buckled around his waist. A half-smoked cigar and a bottle of his private stock of whiskey filled his hands. If she hadn't been a part of the events of the past few days she would've gathered he was just whiling some time away relaxing.

"Better?" he asked as she shut the door behind her. His gaze ran over her, head to toe. The scrutiny heated her afresh. But she swallowed it back.

"Yes," Dulcey nodded. "Thank you…"

Jim inclined his head, gave her one of those quiet smiles of his, the one that made him squint just a little. "Here…" He handed her a napkin-covered item. "Thought you might be a little hungry, too."

She took the thing from him, their fingers brushing, lingering until hers started to tremble and she pulled them away. Yet his gaze remained calm on her. There was a haggard look to his face, though; above the dark stubble covering his jaw his eyes were rimmed in red and held by dark circles. It was late, she realized. She didn't even know just how long she'd been in that bath. And what about him, had he even eaten?

"You've been thinking," Jim commented, falling into step beside her as she moved down the hallway. "About Whitey…?"

"No," Dulcey demurred. "Not really…" Not about Whitey himself, anyway.

"Now, I can see that look," he teased lightly, pulling to a stop.

Her cheeks started to burn – why was he so awfully observant, and of her? And just when had he taken the time to notice such things about her? "What look?" she asked, hating how her voice squeaked.

He grinned, his tired eyes alight with fresh humor. "Oh, that little thinking look of yours. The one that has you biting your lip," he said, and she immediately set it loose from her teeth, "…and fussing with your hair," he continued, and her hand stilled.

"Oh…" Her flush grew.

They walked the rest of the way to her door in silence and stopped. Jim leaned casually against the jamb, cigar and whiskey glass dangling from one hand. "Something you want to ask?"

The question stabbed her – did he realize…?

She started to say something – she wasn't even sure what had tumbled past her lips before she pressed them back together. Something skimmed across his gaze – something beyond his general concern, deeper than his usual friendliness. Maybe he was going to finally rebuke her for her carelessness with Whitey that had caused all this trouble. She deserved the tongue lashing, had been expecting it. Because of her he'd lost so much sleep in worry, had made deals with those outlaws – and she was all to blame. Yes, he'd say it to her and she would hear him out, accept his ire and her resulting guilt, follow his directives. All that was left to discuss between them were the facts of what had happened. He'd likely get to that in the morning; he'd call her into his office, make her sit down and recite what she knew while he recorded it in that quick writing style of his. It would be an interrogation of sorts, with him asking questions and she answering until he was satisfied. Then he'd drop his pencil in a signal of completion, look up and dismiss her back to the dining room and her business.

That was all there was left to discuss – unless…

Unless he knew just what she was wondering – about him – about them…and he was letting her ask, because he always knew when she was thinking about something that involved him and it so often amused him to see her fairly bursting to speak —

But not this time. This time he wasn't humored, despite his little tease. Nor was he mad. He was, she clearly saw, serious, expectant – he knew…

"Dulcey?" he prompted in that drawl that made it come out as "Dull-cee?"

"No, nothing," she told quickly, trying for a smile that failed.

His expression told her he didn't believe her, but he only made that sound of consternation and gave her another one of his squints, then turned to open her door for her. A light was already burning within, and the bed had been turned down – for her.

"Good night, Dulcey," he murmured, straightening. "Sleep well."

"Thank you, Jim. For – for everything." It sounded so unappreciative, she thought. She wanted to tell him more, but she'd already cried and babbled enough at him already. And she didn't dare touch him – not now. And she couldn't ask, couldn't. She was afraid...

"Good night," she managed, drawing her gaze away.

"See you in the morning."

She could only nod because her throat was turning hot and her eyes beginning to burn. Slowly she closed the door on him, turned the lock. Her bed looked so wonderfully inviting, the room welcome. She was right where she belonged, back under the roof of the Inn, within the comparative safety of its walls. Tomorrow she would get up, perform her daily routine of cooking and serving, washing and baking. Jim would be there in his office, working diligently under the call of his badge, frowning over paperwork, planning his next travels across the Strip. He'd call for coffee or lunch, or shut the door for privacy. And it would all settle back down between them, be the same once again…

But his presence was still lingering on the other side of her door – and there'd been that look – that flicker of what could only be called honesty in his eyes…

Had she but asked, what might the answer have been?


	4. Chapter 4

IV.

They stared at her in the momentary silence, waiting for her answer, MacGregor weaving before her with weariness and completely ignorant of her ordeal, Jim and Francis holding back knowing grins from the kitchen doorway.

Dulcey paused– she hated to lie. But it hadn't been worth trying to tell MacGregor what'd happened to her when he'd been so happy to tell his own tales of woe over his task to obtain the depositions for Jim. Her business partner – and Jim's deputy – was a charming braggart and skillful embellisher of tales. And this morning, after a mostly restful night of sleep, with her exhaustion faded and the details of her ordeal softened, she hated to bring any of it back. So she'd let MacGregor go on, offering small sympathies as she tried to start in on the shambles that was her kitchen, content to keep it all tucked away. But now Mac had wound down and wanted to know just what had transpired in his absence. And no wonder; the kitchen, always spotless, was literally torn apart. Dishcloths, used and damp, lay strewn and crumpled across chair backs; dishes, cups and crockery were stacked in jumbled piles, all dirty. Pots and pans littered the stove top. Spilled flour and sugar tracked across the worktable, eggshells and vegetable peelings filled the sink, and bread lay moldering alongside. Mac thought he'd missed a party. If only it were so, Dulcey thought to herself.

"Well, I had a few days off," she told Mac; that was at least a truth, albeit a thin one. "I rested-" Really, what work had she performed, other than cooking a few small meals? The rest of the time had been spent alone – fearful and waiting.

MacGregor reached out a long arm, unexpectedly patted her cheek with an enthusiastic palm. "Ah, what a good lass," he declared to her with a broad smile, not noticing her slight cringe. Even with all her washing last night, there was still a part of her that didn't want an unfamiliar touch. "You needed it."

"But we're awful glad you're back," Francis put in from the doorway, his own smile thankful. Poor Francis – she owed him some true appreciation. He'd worked just as tirelessly as Jim in rescuing her. Perhaps she could bake him something special. He didn't often ask for much, but he had some favorites.

As for Jim-

He now strolled forward, all freshly washed and shaved and looking as hearty as ever. "We missed you a whole bunch, Biscuit," he drawled with a teasing grin.

That nickname – she detested it and he knew it. Even now his laugh was threatening to break out at her irritation.

"So I noticed," she rejoined in severe tones, making sure they both saw her disapproving look cover the room. Then she whirled to address the mess spilling out of the sink, trying not to laugh at their instantly sheepish looks. She went to work, her hands sweeping through dirty crockery, separating silverware from glass, sorting cups and plates, her mind assessing what to tackle first. And it would definitely be related to cleaning, and not on the notion that she determined early this morning was decidedly female-minded, and one that would have Jim trying to cover his amusement if she but asked. It's over, she told herself again. It's nothing…

Behind her Mac declared himself a dead man if he didn't get some sleep _right now_. Francis mumbled something about getting breakfast at the hotel dining room. She heard the two of them stroll out, talking and laughing. Dulcey stacked another collection of dishes, turned to grab another load haphazardly piled on the work table. Jim, she noticed, was still there, watching her in that still, observant way of his. Normally she didn't mind his scrutiny when they were at the Inn – more often than not he was thinking of something else at the same time so her puttering about didn't bother either of them unless she tried to make conversation. Well, she couldn't muster up anything this morning. And the room suddenly seemed awfully small with him in it. Dulcey quickly crossed to the stove, checked the warming pan – there was enough water to at least soak some of the dishes…

Jim stepped up behind her; she detected his soft breathing, the presence of his tall form as it suppressed the air behind her.

"Francis will tell Mac before too long," he commented to her back in that rumbling voice of his.

She nodded without turning around. Her insides had gone queerly tight at his closeness.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked her, his tone almost too polite.

"Fine, fine," Dulcey replied, pouring water. She would not tell him that she'd awoken at dawn from dreams of running with blind fear as she'd called his name, desperate to hear his voice, feel his hands grasp hers, tell her that he —

"You?" she asked, trying to deflect his stare – she knew he was staring at her. "Did you sleep well?" She turned to reach for another bunch of plates and barely missed bumping into him, looked only as far up to the badge pinned, as always, to his vest. If their gazes met then he'd read her thoughts and they were dreadful enough…

"Better than I have been," he drawled back.

"Oh, well… that's good," she mumbled. She worked at the soap flakes, made froth, started rinsing, washing...

"Dulcey…" She heard his intake of breath – he was going say something more, and she didn't want to hear it, didn't want to know-

"He said – you were asleep…" she began, cutting him off and cringed at her blurt. She hadn't meant to voice it – why had her tongue betrayed her? Now it was too late. "Whitey, I mean," she stammered on. "He said-"

"You had me plenty worried," Jim admitted gruffly. "Lot of ground to cover in the Outlet."

Dulcey nodded; one thousand square miles of ground out there, and he'd still found her. She opened her mouth but paused. She could stop it right now, just swallow it back and let it go.

Let it hang between them forever…

"He said he made a deal with you," she softly began, letting the plate slide from her hands to the bottom of the sink. Still she didn't turn around – he'd see her blush if she did.

"That's right."

He'd tell her if she was going too far or asking too much. He'd cut off the conversation and close the subject in that abrupt way and then he'd stalk out, slam the door to his office – he always slammed doors. Except for last night…

"Me…for that outlaw Tinker," Dulcey said slowly. Her hands came up out of the suds to grip the edge of the sink.

"Yes."

"Did you? Turn him loose, I mean? Tinker…?" She chanced a glance back. He shifted slightly – his badge winked at her. She should just tell him now what had happened, make him sit at the table while she worked; make it seem normal, like always…

"He's still taking up space in a cell," Jim told her, "because his brother didn't honor the deal. Told him last night that I'd speak to the judge…it might help."

"He said…" Heart pounding hard against her ribs, Dulcey made herself turn to look up at him. He was standing so close to her, within a finger's reach. The east light working through the window cast a clear look to his freshly shaven face, made his dark hair shine. She swallowed, wishing- "Whitey said you…"

"Dulcey," Jim began. He tipped his head a little toward her, his hazel eyes holding steady on her. "There's something you need to know…"

She saw it then. It was all right there in his deep, absorbing stare. The absolute truth. There was no need to voice it, no need to make him utter it to her.

And no need for her to ask – she knew. She knew.

There was a danger to it, she quickly realized, for him and yet also for her. If anyone knew they could use it for harm – that's what he was telling her with the honesty now spilling from his gaze. And there was also a question hovering there, asking for her deepest trust as he gave this very piece of himself over to her. The sheer power of it struck her sharply, made her fear its weight. For it had to be like this, she knew. It could not be any other way. She had to either accept it as it was – or reject it outright.

With her heart embracing him, she nodded at Jim, saw the quiet smile of understanding work across his lips. "Let me make some coffee," she said softly, slowly lowering her own gaze. "I'll bring it to you – in your office." She reached for the pot, worked the pump.

He took it out of her hands and thrust it aside. Slowly he pulled her to him, put his arms around her and held her to him. "Dulcey…" he murmured.

She reveled at the sudden, soft brush of his lips against her forehead; felt his breaths and the strong heartbeat coming from his chest. He smelled of soap and the sun dried clothes she'd folded for him; of shaving soap and tobacco and leather. That first day came back to her – her first look at the quiet, confident man in dress wool calmly gazing out the train window. His easy smile and his appraising eyes under the glitter of that hat band.

Her hand fell upon the badge pinned to his vest. Her fingers started to recoil, but she stilled them. This was who he was – a lawman, a U.S. Marshal. He would not deny it and neither would she. Somehow knowing and accepting it calmed her a little. She felt him relax, too, as if a force had suddenly been lifted from him.

He was her dearest friend – and more. It would be the same the between them, and yet it would be different, too. She could continue to fuss and worry, pepper him with questions, chafe under his bruising words to her, his insistence that she lock her doors, that she not get too involved – she knew now what it meant. As for Jim, he'd go on chasing outlaws, enforce the law, race into danger – maybe even get hurt, or-

Yes, that, too. She had to be prepared for that, had to accept the possibility that it could happen. For if she denied it then she would be denying him. And she could never deny Jim. Never. Not Jim.

They would keep this thing silently between them; keep it safe for each other.

It would remain unspoken. But it would remain.

END


End file.
